


symptoms

by leafings



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crime AU, Everything is the Same except theres a small turn to Crime, I have ignored that Teen Wolf ever went past Season Three, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-16
Updated: 2017-09-16
Packaged: 2018-12-24 15:20:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12015540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leafings/pseuds/leafings
Summary: he's just shot a man for derek hale - and that isn't even the worst part of this week.





	symptoms

The thing about stealing artwork is that you didn't used to need guns; anyone could walk into an auction with a bit of hired muscle and take it with relative ease. It's happened for hundreds of years, and so many people have got away with it. It's simple, it's because they teach you, when you work there, that no piece of artwork is worth a human life. They want it they can have it.

Now though, everything is about the weapons, a heist isn't that without a bit of intimidation, which is fine when you're not on the other end of course with a hero complex.

The art show has been in town for around a month - just passing through. Beacon Hill was certainly an unusual choice, such a small town. Going to college was expensive, and he really needed the money that came with this gig (it paid exceedingly well, due to said risk). So that's why, when they said don't be a hero, Stiles wasn’t. Well, that and some other reasons.

"This, ladies and gentleman, is Sanyu’s _‘Vase of Lillies with Red Ground’,_ which is now released from China. Do we have any takers for say, one point five million start?" 

His head hurts. He hasn’t had much sleep and he really wished that he wasn’t here, doing this. He’s had a shit week at college and he’s been stuck on his assignment for what feels like forever, with the deadline looming ever closer. He has to put that aside though to get the job done and get it done right.

He’s constantly waiting for the moment, dreading it, and then the figure he’s been waiting for actually walks in - Chris Argent. He has to catch himself before he gives himself away because the sight of him sets him on edge, makes his blood run cold; scares him to death. He doesn't look at Stiles and Stiles don't look directly at him. He swallows. 

"Three point five million to the woman on the phone!" He hears his voice speak aloud but his eyes are tracking movements, every single one of them. He's gone in through the security door, and Stiles realises too late that he’s left his key back there. His palms start to sweat.

Smoke explodes to life around the room, and the guests jump into action, getting up and off their chairs and heading for the exits, making noise as they go. Through the smokescreen, Stiles can make out some of the men walking calmly away - in on it. You have just got to stay calm, do as you've been taught. His heart, however, is ricocheting around his chest. 

Stiles grabs the painting. The protocol is that you wrap it up in the back room as quickly as you can, and place it in the time delay slot. He’d practised it in the afternoon before the show, just in case. There are two other men with him, security guards, so in theory, he should be safe. Neither of them is Scott, because that was something they’d decided would cause too much suspicion, however, one of the guards is a familiar, his face deep set with bright eyes.

Stiles takes it to the back room, and the guards watch the door while he zips open a protective case. He inspects the painting. He has a two-second window to fuck this up, or rather, get this right. He takes out the knife.

He puts it together as fast as is humanly possible. The next step would be the safe deposit slot, but he never gets there.

"Ah, ah, Mr Stilinski; the painting please." His voice grates through Stiles like nails on a chalkboard. Don't be a hero.

Gerard Argent has a gun. His ego is never big enough of a weapon, despite its size. He doesn’t even wear a mask to conceal his face, but even if he had done, Stiles would have known his voice. He’d have known it anywhere. He’d been making his life a living hell for years, something that had managed to extend to college. This was meant to put a stop to just that. 

He leans forward, dropping the case on the ground. Stiles’ leg kicks out as the painting skids towards him.

Gerard leans over to examine the case.

He’s a hero.

The taser hits him in the neck, and Stiles gives him a breathless smile as he stumbles. It isn’t enough voltage. Now, he’s pissed.

Pleas scramble from his mouth as Gerard steps forward. The gun strikes the side of his head hard, and he hits the ground. Pain ricochets through his head, his ears ring, and his vision blurs. He fires two shots at the guards, either blanks or metal. He can’t tell which. There’s the sound of someone running. God, he hopes it was Danny. 

He loses around two seconds every five; he comes slowly to the realisation is not a good thing at all. He doesn’t move, mostly because he isn’t capable. He can dimly hear footsteps, and with a resolute crunch, the world goes black as Gerard Argent steps onto his face.

 **-**  

Stiles wakes up in the hospital feeling like he’s been run over, which in all fairness he has been - with Gerard's foot. His mouth tastes like shit, he’s got the worst headache in the world and he’s fairly sure that his nose has been set. It could be worse and it could be better. It's a pretty shitty start to his consciousness though. He'd give it a four out of ten.

“Stiles, can you hear me?” The voice belongs to Melissa McCall, so at least he’s not dead, because it's not his mother speaking.

“Yes.” It comes out okay, so he can guess there's no real brain damage. He opens an eye and there’s a face swimming in concern right above his. If he had anywhere to flinch to he would because she's so close. They have a stare-down, he breaks first.

“Hi, Mrs McCall.” He says sheepishly, and he hasn’t really called her that since he turned eighteen. But, there’s no reason to not suck up to her while he’s lying in a hospital bed with debilitating wounds. She’s bound to be royally pissed at him.

“Stiles, I had to drive you here on my day off when you nearly _died_ right in front of me.” She sounds a bit exasperated, with the usual hint of motherly concern that usually colours her voice when either he or Scott gets in trouble.

“Do you have any idea how close you...” She trails off, not wanting to complete the thought or the sentence. He grimaces in guilt. Melissa has always been a mother figure to him ever since his own mother had died. There's not much she wouldn't do for him, and he knows that despite their unspoken agreement to never actually talk about it - she thinks of him as a son.

“You had slight fluid on the brain," She says, and it sounds de-habilitating but the expression she's got on him says that it currently isn’t life-threatening, but her actions could be. "They’ve drained it easily and there should be no lasting damage." Relief settles slightly into his stomach.

How long has he been unconscious, is his main question. Clearly, they've done some work on him because draining fluid from his brain sounds pretty serious. The crisis seems to have been averted, however, and although he's very achy there doesn't seem to be anything physically wrong with him right at this very moment.

"Your father called, he says he can’t get here but he’ll see you when he’s back from the seminar," His stomach does a small flip, he didn't want his father to worry. The plan was that his father didn't even _know._  "I told him you were fine. I just said you hit your head pretty hard.”

"How long have I been out?" He asks.

She glances behind her at the clock on the wall. "Not long, around six hours?"

He’s digesting it all, or else he wouldn’t be so quiet. That’s probably why she thinks he’s worse off because he’s not talking, in reality, everything seems to be fine for the fact that he got smashed in the head with the butt of a gun. He's only lost six hours. He's lost more doing other activities for the pack.

“Well, if you want, you can get dressed and you’re free to go anytime. We can get someone to pick you up?” She's always so concerned, for someone who's sons a wolf she has to be. “I’d drive you back but, my shifts actually just started.” 

He imagines his Dad would go apeshit if he knew. About werewolves, about everything really. She'd stopped trying to make Stiles tell him about the whole thing a long time ago, and it's a good job. He doesn't think his old man's heart could handle it, and, if he was being truthful, he's too much of a wimp to even think about telling him. Although he's twenty-one, he'd probably be grounded for the rest of his life for what he's done in the past several years. He certaintly wouldn't blame his dad either.

He thinks really hard about someone else he can call but he pulls up blank, he scrolls through his phone and doesn't even know most of the contacts.

In hindsight, that should have been the first clue.

“It’s fine, I can call a ride.” He lies. He’d call Scott, but he’s not sure whether he’s even around at the moment, he's not sure about anything. He fishes in his jeans pockets and finds some money, not much, but enough to get back to the house. He feels strange and empty. Of what, he doesn't know. But he's not right. He's not right.

“Okay, keep yourself out of trouble _please_ Stiles for the love of God," She looks perturbed. "The police wanted to interview you, but they said they'd wait until the Sheriff was back.”

The police wanting to question him, is both good and bad, because although he's sure he won't be convicted, there's every chance that something could go wrong and they'd find out what happened. Thinking about it makes his head hurt so he decides to put it on the back burner for now.

He dresses quickly and ignores the now constant throbbing pain in his head as he calls for a local taxi to pick him up.  His hair is stuck up everywhere but at least it's clean, and so are his clothes; jeans, a t-shirt that he's sure smelt less like fabric softener when he arrived. Good old Melissa. He can't find his jacket though, but luckily his phone and wallet are in his jeans pocket. He walks out of the hospital with nothing but a few scratches. He feels too lucky.

**-**

It’s late when the taxi does arrive, and when he gets out of the car at his house he can immediately tell that something isn't right. He walks dejectedly up to the front door, which is jarred open, and that's really all he needs to see to know.

It’s not, it’s really not, and his Dad is going to kill him. 

It’s a mess. He’s definitely been broken into, if not robbed, and he wants to sigh at the injustice of it all. He picks his way around the broken table and through all the rooms, where he ascertains that nothing is apparently that much amiss, despite being in complete disarray. He eventually climbs the stairs, ascertaining all the damage to the fixtures. Wondering how he was going to file a police report about this when the owner of the house was the goddamn  _sherrif._

His bed is turned over and what little furnishings are in the room are thrown without care onto the floor and other surfaces. He stares at them for far too long, feeling something in the depths of his stomach that he can’t label. There's a building frustration, that coupled with the pain in his head, has him almost on the verge of tears. 

“Stiles.” He turns at the sound of the voice.

His life flashes before his eyes, and all the other clichéd crap. He knows what’s going to happen here, even though he’s done his part. He's probably going to  _die._ Gerard Argent can't keep his word as far as Stiles could throw him - and that's not very far. He should have fucking known.

“Was this you?” He asks, tiredly because it’s getting to the point right now where he is so done with all this shit. He's done everything for them, and this is how they repay him. He can't believe that he thought that he could do this for these assholes and expect them to leave him alone in payment. He’s angry, irrationally so, because they’re probably going to kill him and that’s all the emotion he can feel.

“Where’s the painting, Stiles?” 

**Author's Note:**

> i think that I have the next chapter just about ready to go, so please comment if you would like more, or you have any suggestions!


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